


Tangled Threads

by QuietUptown



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Angst, Based on Kimi no Na wa/Your Name, Happy Ending(ish), Heavy Angst, M/M, aka best movie ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9831314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietUptown/pseuds/QuietUptown
Summary: Your Name/Kimi no Na wa AU, or: the AU where Victor and Yuuri suddenly start switching bodies on a regular basis but then...(You don't need to have seen/read the original story to enjoy this)He looked around one more time, taking all of it in. He chuckled, then winced at the sound of his own voice, he had forgotten how it was now lower than his usual one. His mind seemed to be mocking him; he was deeply aware that it was all a dream, yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to wake up.He had read a newspaper article on a similar phenomenon once, something along the lines of ‘lucid dreaming’, but, from what he could remember, those were linked to nightmares. They were supposed to be scary and you were supposed to be paralyzed from the fear.Finding yourself in your idol’s body and house just… wasn’t anything of that sort. If anything, it would have been extremely entertaining if it weren’t for the crazy hungover.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to stick to canon as much as I could, but it so happens that Yuuri never moved to Detroit ( ~~it's Detroit that moved to him, aka Phichit and Celestino~~ ), for no particular reason other than that I felt more like describing Japan's beautiful scenery. No tea no shade Detroit, I'm sure you're beautiful too.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm aware that there's already a Your Name AU in the fandom: and I will read it for sure, after I'll finish writing mine, so I won't accidentally steal ideas or something. But you can check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8884927/chapters/20367091) (I'm sure it's gonna be a lot better than this mess)

 

He rolled around the bed, arms clutching and dragging the covers to move with his body. They felt different, softer and warmer. He snuggled in the comfort of his bed with a small, satisfied, smile grazing his lips.

Bringing his hand to his forehead, he massaged his temple, expecting it to hurt after the night of drinking he had just spent the day before. Except, his head wasn’t pounding and his mind felt completely clear. Even his body seemed to feel completely healthy, no trace of nausea or tense limbs.

 _That’s a first_ , he thought to himself in a mixture of disbelief and pride. Since his twenty-fifths birthday, hangovers had become a staple after each and every night of drinking. It was something he had come to terms (surrendered to, even) a long time ago.

Tentatively, he raised his head slightly from the, extremely comfortable ( _had it always been so soft_?), pillow and tentatively shook his head from side to side to test the possible headache. Nothing. He was officially feeling good.

With his eyes still stubbornly closed, he swung his legs out of his bed, ready to stand up. Except something went wrong. His legs weren’t dangling from the high of his bed, instead, they were fully stretched in front of him, touching what felt like the ground. _Had he fallen asleep on the floor?_

Finally, he opened his eyes, confusion settling in the pit of his stomach as everything in his view seemed blurry. As in ˗I can only see splotches of colors˗ blurry. He rubbed his eyes once, twice, three times, but his vision wouldn’t change. The room still extremely blurry.

Disoriented and slightly concerned for his sight, he stood up from the ground (he had definitely fallen asleep on the floor) and tentatively felt his way around the room. He had lived in his apartment long enough to know every single crack and crevice like the back of his hand to the point that he could walk from his bed to the bathroom with his eyes sealed shut, as he had done multiple times already.

So he wasn’t expecting to slam his entire body into a wall, nor was he expecting the high-pitched yelp that escaped his lips. Still dazed, he raised his hands in front of his body, ready to feel his way to the bathroom, convinced that a shower would cure his newfound myopia.

Focused on the task at hand, he didn’t notice that the colors of the bathroom were off, his usual white and blue tiles now a bright yellow. And he also ignored how the planimetry of it had changed, too engrossed in his futile attempt to fix whatever was happening to eyes.

He felt the sink counter, in search of something, _anything_ , that could help him, hands finding-

_Glasses?_

_Since when did he own glasses?_

Too desperate to care, he grabbed the set of lenses, hoping that, for some weird luck, they would help.

And they did, the counter in front of him turning from a clouded, indiscernible, brown to a real looking piece of furniture. Even the sink was now into focus, so much so that he could spot each and every drop of water that beaded the pristine surface.

His gaze fluttered upwards to face the mirror and his breath caught in his throat, a scream threatening to escape.

Bewildered, he raised a slightly chubby hand to his face, pinching his left cheek with enough pressure to leave a slight red mark, he touched his, now brown hair, ruffled it, then swept it from side to side. Everything felt too real.

But he knew that it could only be a dream. Waking up in a whole new body could only be the plot of a terribly unoriginal movie, or a dream.

With the newfound calmness of having realized that everything was just a dream, he smiled and stared at the adorable reflection in the mirror.

“This is going to be fun” he uttered, the sounds escaping his tongue unknown and unfamiliar, but understood at the same time.

 

~~~~~~

 

Crouched in front of the toilet bowl, sweaty hands gripping the cold ceramic for support, he gagged helplessly, head almost completely inside the toilet.

His body ached, muscles sore from lord knows what and from staying in the same position for lord knows how long.

Once the gagging came to an end, he slowly moved his body away from the toilet, although he opted for remaining close to it, he sat cross-legged on the floor; eyes closed shut, breath faint and smelly, body still producing an astounding amount of sweat.

Bravely, he opened an eye, the other following suit. The bathroom’s light was blinding, worsening his headache, but his vision was _clear_. He brought his hand to his face, his unusually slender fingers searching for his glasses, they weren’t there.

He frowned, brows drawing closer together as he slowly turned his head around.

Not only could he _see without glasses_ , he was also sitting on the floor of a bathroom that wasn’t _his._ In the frenzy he had been in when he had woken up (his one and only goal being reaching the bathroom) his eyes had been half-closed as he had blindly limped to, what he had hoped was, the bathroom.

Shakily, he pushed himself up from the floor, his unsteady legs still managing to support him. He walked to the sink to wash himself and scrub off the smell of alcohol and vomit that lingered on himself.

He briefly caught a glimpse of the image in the mirror and leaped backwards, heart thumping loudly in his chest, the sound echoing in his ears.

One hand flew to his chest to feel the accelerating beat, the reflection mimicking perfectly his movement. He raised an eyebrow, the reflection following suit. He turned sideways, the reflection turned sideways.

Staring back at him, stuck in the mirror’s image, was Victor Nikiforov, figure skating legend, pluri-medal winner, Victor Nikiforov.

Granted, the reflection looked like a drugstore version of him, the usual neat, silver hair were now sticking in every direction, a few strands tangled with each other, the bags under his eyes purple and prominent, chapped lips and messy, dirty clothes. But _it was_ Victor Nikiforov, he was certain of it.

 _I must be dreaming_ , he reasoned with himself, both hands now feeling every bit of skin in his body, the mirror image of Victor doing the same.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time he had dreamed of Victor Nikiforov (his entire life had been plastered with dreams regarding him; especially in his teenage years, when Nikiforov seemed to be the only thing he could think of).

But he had never dreamed of _being_ him.

He swayed from foot to foot, his head pounding with every tiny movement, nausea still haunting his body. Everything seemed so realistic, the cold ceramic of the sink on his long fingertips, the faint smell of cologne and soap lingering in the air, mixing with the rancid stink of alcohol emitting from his clothes and perhaps his body as a whole.

He jolted as a steady scratching against the closed door echoed in the small bathroom, his heart thumping slightly faster. Unconsciously, he brought his right hand to his chest to feel the weirdly realistic beating, catching his reflection in the mirror one more time, he squinted at the sight of his raised hand.

On his ring finger rested a strangely familiar gold band, it fit tightly, almost as if it wasn’t the correct size, and it was placed in an awkward position where it didn’t stay exactly at the base of his finger and almost interfered with the bending of his knuckle, leaving it stiffer than the rest of the digits. He frowned, bringing his left pointer finger to lightly touch the cold ring, ready to pull it out and examine it more attentively.

The scratching at the door resumed, this time stronger and more desperate, this time accompanied by a wail. A dog. He leaped towards the door (never in his life had he been able to resist a dog).

As soon as the door was opened, a giant dog knocked him over. Loud barking echoed in the apartment as the brown poodle licked what he thought was his owner’s face. And, technically, it was.

His hands instinctively flew into the animal’s curly fur, happy to receive love. The gold ring fully forgotten along with his pained head and the general uneasiness that had settled in his body.

Tentatively, almost as to test his wacky theory, he detached himself from the dog’s body and uttered an insecure “Makkachin?” the poodle standing at full attention, ears perking up tail wagging happily.

Yes, this _really_ was Victor Nikiforov’s dog. This _really_ was Victor Nikiforov’s body and, as he later on would find out by the amount of gold medals and prizes scattered messily around the rooms, this _really_ was Victor Nikiforov’s apartment.

He collapsed on the floor, the loyal poodle curling up next to him, a satisfied sigh escaping its body as he mindlessly stroked the dog’s fur.

He looked around one more time, taking all of it in, and he chuckled, then winced at the sound of his own voice, he had forgotten how it was now lower than his usual one. His mind was mocking him; he was deeply aware that it was all a dream, yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to wake up.

He had read a newspaper article on a similar phenomenon once, something along the lines of ‘lucid dreaming’, but, from what he could remember, those were linked to nightmares. They were supposed to be scary and you were supposed to be paralyzed from the fear.

Finding yourself in your idol’s body and house just… wasn’t anything of that sort. If anything, it would have been extremely entertaining if it weren’t for the crazy hungover.

He let his body lower itself on the, surprisingly warm (underfloor heating, perhaps?), ground; right next to the napping poodle. Closing his eyes seemed the best option to relieve his raging headache, adrenaline running low, leaving him with the leftover tiredness and a slight panic.

 

~~~~~~

 

Cuddled into what seemed to be the comfiest and warmest cocoon in history, he blindly patted around himself to grab the covers and raise them over his head, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. He stilled. Then mumbled something incomprehensible.

Tried once more.

His voice was back.

He threw the covers off of himself, suddenly awake. Rubbed his eyes a few times, eliminating every trace of sleep from them, then he opened them. His semi-dark room was blurry and this time it was in a I-need-glasses-blurry way and not in a I-am-hungover-as-hell-blurry one.

He huffed out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he had just had the weirdest dream ever, but, for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to remember.

Already fully awake, going back to sleep was out of the question, so he grumpily decided to go for a morning run, and that’s when he realized it.

No wonder he had felt so comfy and cozy, he had been sleeping on a numerous amount of stacked futons, probably at least five.

His eyebrows drew together as he looked around the room, trying to recall his reasoning and, especially, the moment he had built this makeshift mattress. His mind fully blank.

Dazed and confused, he scratched his head as a loud yawn erupted from his body, he shrugged it off, mind already drifting somewhere else.

Standing up, he groggily grabbed as many futons as he could, cursing himself for his dumb idea, and retorted to bringing them to the first storage room he could find.

As he limped out of the door (limped? Why was he limping?) he tried to recall the weird dream he had had, but all he could feel was clouded memories of a dog and a subtle feeling of uneasiness, but, as it usually happens with dreams, even the few, faint recollections, were slowly slipping away, leaving him with just void.

Still determined to go for his morning run, he limped (again, why was he limping?) to the bathroom, already undressing himself as he slid the door closed behind him.

He caught his shirtless image in the mirror and gasped as he saw the bluish, almost purple, bruise that extended and twisted around his right hip all the way to his ribcage, his finger tentatively reached to touch it but instantly backing away. It wasn’t too painful as it looked, but he surely didn’t want to test the extent of the injury.

Now that he was aware of it, he couldn’t help but feel every single stretch and pull of his skin, his mind registering and analyzing his every movement.

As he stood there, in front of the mirror, half naked, he wondered how he had gotten such a bruise without noticing. Perhaps that had been the reason why he had stacked all those futons one over the other, but, just like the bruise, he didn’t have any recollection of it whatsoever.

He sighed audibly, frustration haunting his chest as he slowly slid his pajama pants down his legs, careful not to touch his bruise or even twist his hips in a certain way.

Hopping into the shower, he hoped that the warm, comforting water, would calm him and clear his mind.

 

Apparently not every problem could be resolved with just a warm shower, because, as soon as he stepped on the cold tile floor, his bruise was still there, the memories hadn’t come back and the eerie feeling hadn’t been swallowed up by the drain alongside the water.

With baby steps, he reached his bedroom, fully clothed in his gym attire (yes, he was still planning on working out). The sun had finally risen in the sky, its light filling his room, illuminating it.

A confused “What-” escaped his lips as he took in the sight of his-once almost bare-bedroom walls. Plastered on every wall were the posters he had collected throughout his entire childhood and teenage years, the posters he had taken down a few years before, when he had felt too grown up and intimidated by the numerous pair of eyes that stared at him. Too nostalgic to throw them out, or even store them somewhere hidden, he had piled them up neatly on his wooden desk.

Except, now the desk was empty and all of the banners had been taped rather messily on the walls, the edges overlapping with one another and some corners, left without tape, were hanging sloppily in the air. Some pictures had even been spoiled with random doodles and smiley faces.

His face scrunched up at the sight, the list of weird events seemed to be ever-growing, so much so that he didn’t even stop to try and explain the reasoning behind it, he just limped from wall to wall and detached every single poster carefully, getting rid of the sticky scotch tape behind each one before stacking them back in a neat pile.

Hoping the surprises were over, he reached his phone that had thankfully been, plugged in and was now fully charged. Tapping on the home button mindlessly, he froze at the sight of his notifications; he scrolled through them while the screen was still locked, catching a good amount of missed phone calls from his coach, and a couple from his friends, too.

The texts were even _more_ concerning, somehow, as if every single person in his life had decided to synch, they all said the same thing, the wording changed from each person to the other, but the overall concern was the same ‘are you okay?’.

And the question lingered in his mind for a while, because-

_Was he okay?_

Not even himself could answer, so he retorted to a simple ‘I’m fine, don’t worry’ that he copied and pasted to each and every chat.

His best friend, Phichit, answered back in a matter of seconds, asking him if he would see him at practice, and he didn’t even have time to think the question through, that his phone was already ringing with an incoming call.

“Yuuri-” the drawn out words filled the room as Yuuri clicked the speakerphone’s option, he lowered himself on his futon, already exhausted by his day “How are you feeling?”

Phichit’s tone was cheerful, as always, but Yuuri had known him for too long and he knew that hidden behind it was a slight concern. Hoping to be believable, he repeated the words that he had written on the text. Wondering what he could’ve done to worry his best friend.

“What about your hip?” Yuuri froze, right hand flying to his hip instinctively, he winced in pain as he accidentally smacked the bruise. How did he know about his hip?

“What about my hip?” he answered, casually. Had Phichit been there when he had gotten hurt?

Turns out that yes, Phichit had, in fact, been there. According to him, Yuuri had shown up at ice castle almost two hours later than usual, because of that he had apparently received the ‘mightiest scolding in the history of scoldings’ by his coach, Celestino and, at some point during the day, had attempted to do a Quadruple Salchow out of the blue.

“A Quadruple Salchow, Yuuri, I don’t even know what got into you!”

It hadn’t gone too well. According to Phichit, his skate had gotten stuck in the ice, stopping his body right at the landing, and his body had “literally twisted in two, Yuuri” half going in one direction, the other going exactly the other way. He had landed on the ice with a loud bang, his hip and part of the ribcage breaking his fall.

“Celestino completely lost it, not even Yuuko could calm him down,” Yuuri winced, Celestino was rarely upset, or even slightly worked up “After he ensured that you were, slightly, okay he sent you home right away.”

Phichit paused, probably pondering.

“You really don’t remember any of this?” Yuuri mumbled a weak no, a slight tint of red covering his cheeks and nose “Are you sure you haven’t slammed your head too? Maybe you have a concussion or something.”

 

Attention had never been something he craved, the anxiety that it brought with it was what he dreaded the most; sure, he was a figure skater, but he wasn’t in it for the fame or the recognition, but for the beauty of the sport in itself, for the emotions that where connected to it, for the feelings that he had never felt off of the ice, suddenly flowing into him and developing into tangible states.

It was no secret that when Yuuri was off of the ice, he would stir as far away as possible from attention, sometimes even completely avoiding it altogether.

So when, right after his conversation with Phichit, he waddled into the private dining room (the one reserved to his family only) to find his mother and sister staring intently at him and ushering something between each other, it wasn’t surprising that he almost bolted back to his room, cheeks already flushed with shame.

Instead he reached the table and hid his pained expression as he lowered himself on the ground, his hip screaming and protesting in agony. His mother smiled reassuringly to him, and bid him good morning, slowly handing him a cup of white rice, almost as you would do with a wounded and scared animal.

His sister stared at him curiously as Yuuri grabbed a chunk of rice with his chopsticks and placed it in his mouth.

“Oh, so you remember how to eat today, huh?” she teased snidely, a giggle threatening to escape her body, as she struggled to hold it in, under the death glare of her mother.

“Mari.” she lowered her head towards her own food, a smirk still present on her lips.

They ate in silence, awkwardness filling the air to the brink.

“I’ll go help your father” announced Yuuri’s mother, standing up from the table and collecting the empty bowls from the table, she padded her way out of the room.

Mari instantly turned towards her younger brother, mischief clear in her eyes, her teenage self reemerging.

“And I see you’re back to your old boring hairstyle-” she pouted as a frown enveloped Yuuri’s face “I liked the slicked back look better than this.” she gestured sloppily towards his hair.

Understanding that her brother would keep quiet no matter what, she stood up abruptly, the table wobbling slightly, then she disappeared for a brief second.

When she came back, she was holding a yellow post-it note in her hands, Mari handed it to him immediately “I didn’t know you could speak Russian, little brother”, she disappeared once again.

 

As Yuuri frantically typed the text into the little white box of Google Translate, his heart was pounding with an emotion he couldn’t quite well identify.

He stared at the last letter of the Cyrillic alphabet written on the post-it, then scanned the choice of letters displayed on the screen, searching for the right one. He hesitated. Then clicked on it.

Yuuri watched intently as the unknown words on both the post-it and screen turned into an understandable sentence.

His breath stilled in his throat.

_Who are you?_

~~~~~~

He walked into the ice rink with unfaltering steps, his white and red gym bag graciously slung over his shoulders.

The rink was already populated, the sound of blades scratching on ice filling the place entirely. A cloud of red hair was twirling on the left side of the rink, hands raised to the sky dramatically. On the right a boy was discussing with an balding man, their voice slightly raised and meshing together as one spoke over the other.

He snorted at the sight. No one had noticed his arrival, yet.

Sitting down on an uncomfortable bench, he took off his shoes and started lacing up his immaculate skates, hands working on autopilot as his mind raced to other places.

“Nikiforov” he froze, raised his head towards the voice and blinked. The blond teenager had skated to the closest side of the rink to his bench and was now staring at him intently.

“Yes, Yuri?” the older man stood up, making his way towards the entrance, not paying too much attention to one of the boy’s frequent tantrums.

“Glad you could grace us with your presence today” spat the blond, arms folding pettily in front of his chest. The silver haired man halted his step, one leg slightly raised, ready to enter the rink and step on the ice.

He turned around, brows furrowed. His coach was now looking at him too, his unreadable expression plastered on his face.

“What.” he babbled, leg still frozen in midair.

“You think you’re so good that you don’t need practice anymore?” overstated Yuri, hands still folded across his chest his expression hard and judging.

“Yura’s right, where were you?” scolded his coach, Yakov “Answer me, Victor.”

Victor sighed, his leg falling back down, defeated. He turned fully to the unusual duo ganging up on him.

“Please, don’t scold me again, yesterdays’ one was enough.” he whined, annoyed. His arms folded on his chest to mimic Yuri’s pose.

“What are you talking about you idiot,” the blond teenager was getting worked up, his tone getting harsher as the time passed “You weren’t here yesterday.” he spelled, words spilling out of his mouth slowly.

Victor blinked. He could’ve sworn that he had been scolded by _a_ coach, sure, the memory was blurry and cloudy, but-

_Perhaps it had only been in a dream?_

Thinking about it, he had no recollection whatsoever of the day before. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep on his bed, drunk and giggling, then an entire day’s worth of memories had been erased, probably due to his hungover, and then he had somehow woken up, a day later, on his living room’s floor alongside his poodle.

He uttered an aloof apology, more to the blond teenager that seemed to be angrier than his own coach, then stepped into the ice, ready to train.

 

~~~~~~

 

He could feel it, the weight of the mattress of a westerner’s bed underneath him, if his eyes hadn’t been closed he would have rolled them in annoyance.

But his eyes were closed, shut thigh even, and he had no intention whatsoever to open them; he knew already what he would find and his mind told him that maybe, just maybe, if his eyes stayed shut, he would go back to his own body and not _his_ in this stupid recurring dream.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know. He could _smell_ it in the air, cologne and something else that he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he could _feel_ it in the coldness of the covers wrapped around him, he could _sense_ his body being different.

A discouraged sigh escaped his lips.

He could _hear_ it in his voice.

Maybe, just maybe, if his eyes–

His hopes were shattered by a loud wail. His eternal weakness, his Achille’s heel, dogs.

He immediately shot up, searching for the distressed dog, but he was nowhere to be found, he could hear him though, his soft cries far away, but still clearly audible.

Bare feet touching the floor, thank god for underfloor heating, he waddled around the apartment, frantically searching for, what he assumed was, Makkachin.

He found it lying near its bowl, eyes pleading and mouth opening to pant and salivate, he crouched down, hand scratching the soft fur, the other grabbing the empty bowl. Luckily, Victor (Dream-Victor, perhaps?) had a box of dog food on hand, right on the marble counter. He filled the bowl to the brink, not knowing how much would be too much. He took the second bowl and filled it with water, then settled both down in front of the, now happy, dog.

As he wandered the apartment, Yuuri caught a reflection of himself, and it was so weird, moving and seeing another man in the mirror doing his same exact movements and expressions.

Since he had nothing better to do, he grabbed Makkachin’s leash and went on a walk. Not expecting the _extremely_ cold air, he froze his butt off, as Phichit would say, and immediately ran back into the apartment, shaking and his teeth clattering furiously. He could’ve probably won the world record for shortest stroll in history. The poor poodle looked extremely disappointed when crouched down on the rug, what looked to be a sad expression on its snout.

Yuuri was on about to cuddle on the blue, inviting, sofa, when his phone–Victor’s phone–started ringing from his bedroom. An annoying ringtone filled the apartment, making Yuuri snort in laughter as he walked to the room.

The phone was still ringing when he found it, he cradled it in his hands, not bothering to read the caller id. The device vibrated incessantly in his hands, the ringtone irritatingly loud and obnoxious. He stalled.

How could he answer when the only words he knew in Russian were the usual ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’ and a few swear words? Plus, what was he supposed to say and how could he sound like the real Victor, when he had only heard him talk in interviews?

He sat on the bed, phone held tightly in his hands as the ringing came to a halt, he exhaled in relief just in time to hear it go off with a ding. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Now the dings were overlapping, the texts so many and seemingly non-stop that not even the phone could keep up.

Curious, he turned the phone in his hands, unlocking it with his fingerprint. Texts were still flowing into the chat as a certain ‘Yuri’ was piling swear word after swear word and insult after insult.

Yuuri scrolled upwards to the first text ‘Yuri’ had sent today, not wanting to snoop on Victor’s business.

_Where are you?_

_Idiot!!_

_Answer me!_

_We have practice! Are you kidding me?_

Yuuri gulped as he scanned the rest of the texts quickly, already having understood the gist of it.

In the meantime, he had realized two important things:

Not only he was supposed to have practice, and was, apparently, late to it.

But also, most importantly, he could read Russian. The words were written in Cyrillic alphabet, but, somehow, how could understand it perfectly, with no help whatsoever. Could even understand the words that had typos in it like in ‘I’ll koll you’.

Terrified by the threats, the typos making them even scarier, he jumped to his feet and walked to the wardrobe, hoping, by some miracle, that Dream-Victor would be similar to him in at least one thing.

He cheered, pumping his fist in the air as he grabbed the white and red gym bag. He chose the first training clothes he could find and put them on, blushing furiously as he slowly undressed himself, eyes glued shut, to the point that they were almost hurting.

He grabbed a couple of coats, not daring to repeat the previous experience, and layered two heavy coats on himself. His slim and toned figure now resembled more a hot dog costume, but Yuuri shrugged it off.

With his gym bag on his shoulders and his phone with Google Maps opened in the other, he headed outside, heart pounding in his chest and sweat pooling around his armpits.

 

The stares he received once at the ice rink were, by far, the most varied range of expressions he had seen in the span of a minute.

Some people were laughing, perhaps at his flushed and sweaty face or perhaps at his confused expression. Some others were stunned. Others were angry, well, only one was angry, a young blond boy who was glaring intently at him.

But undoubtedly, every single one of the people in the rink was surprised.

 _So it’s okay_ , Yuuri convinced himself, _Victor loves to surprise people, right?_

He took off all of his layers, setting them near his gym bag on a bench, then began working on taking off his shoes.

Once ready, he stood up, and walked to Victor’s coach, Yakov. The man had always terrified him, every time he would catch a glimpse of him on tv, he would get goosebumps.

He smiled, trying not to sound too hesitant or scared, even.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” he uttered, words flowing out of his mouth in unfamiliar sounds, but something he, somehow, managed to understand perfectly.

Yakov stared at him, expression unreadable.

“What do you want me to do?” Yakov raised an eybrow, weirded out.

 

“That was by far the worst practice you’ve ever done.” commented coldly Yuri, skating smoothly past him, an amused expression on his face. That was the closest thing near a smile he had seen on him in the numerous hours of training.

Yuuri hung his head low, silver strands of hair blocking his view, a blush tinting his pale cheeks.

He got out of the rink, whishing he could disappear or, even better, that the ground would swallow him whole.

“What is going on with you?” Yakov inquired, his voice wasn’t aggressive nor loud, it was simply neutral and emotionless, but his eyes betrayed his real concern.

“Nothing.” Yuuri mumbled, then scanned his brain for a lie, he settled for the first one he could think of, not wanting to raise even more suspicion “I’m just uninspired.”

Yakov sighed, hands lightly smacking his tights.

“I know.”

Yuuri’s head shot up a stunned expression, his had just been a badly fabricated lie. Surely Victor Nikiforov, THE Victor Nikiforov couldn’t be lacking inspiration. He had always seen him as a bottomless pit of ideas and genius. Could he be really lacking inspiration? Yuuri took a deep breath, still shocked by the revelation.

He nodded, gathered up his things in a ball of clothes and other accessories and headed to the bathroom.

Where he could have time to think (and to get dressed) without the stares or whispers of the other skaters.

 

Once back ‘home’, he did everything he could to advert his mind from the constant thought of what had happened at the rink. Deep in the back of his mind he knew that it was all a dream, that his subconscious was just playing tricks on him, projecting one of his worst preoccupations on Victor. He knew that, Victor, the real Victor, not Lucid-Dream-Victor would never run out of inspiration, but-

He couldn’t help but wonder if-

Yuuri dug into the cupboards in search for something slightly edible, he settled on instant noodles, adding some ‘fresh’ (more like, almost rotten) vegetables to the already sad mix and ate all of it, cuddled on the sofa alongside Makkachin.

Convinced that reorganizing Victor’s kitchen would help free his mind, he began cleaning and putting every utensil in the right compartment.

Hours later, as he was organizing the mugs per color, he began yawning every few minutes.

Leaving the mugs half in the cupboard, half on the counter he headed towards the bedroom, where he found Makkachin already asleep on the bed.

He closed his eyes shut, to change to his pajama, still stinking of sweat from the training, but he categorically refused to shower, so he ignored the stench, pretending it didn’t bother him.

He was already half asleep when he remembered.

The post-it.

_Who are you?_

He stood up from the bed, feet wobbly from the tiredness, and walked up to the seemingly unused desk in the corner of his room.

Grabbing a black pen, his eyes scanning the table for some paper, to no avail. Too exhausted to go around the house and search for it. He settled for Victor’s pristine arm. The pen was almost empty, making it even more difficult to write on skin.

He knew it was pointless, since everything happening was just a dream, but something deep inside of him kept pushing him, almost as if his instincts wouldn’t let him sleep until he did it.

So, slowly, he spelled out, in latin letters and english:

_I am Yuuri, hi_ _J_

 

~~~~~~

 

In the following weeks, the dreams haunted him every three to four days, they came unexpectedly, randomly and they were impossible to track or prevent.

He had browsed every possible site, both English and Japanese, searching for an explanation, but nothing seemed to fit his own description. For the first time in his life, Google didn’t have an answer. He had also retorted to those ‘interpret your dreams’ websites, the ones where you would input a couple of keywords to receive an in-depth analysis on your subconscious.

Except, he couldn’t bring himself to remember any of them. No matter how hard he tried and how much he concentrated, nothing would surface to his memory. He would wake up with a haunting feeling of confusion and loss whirling in his mind and body.

Sometimes his room would be different. Once, he had woken up to find his entire closet’s worth of clothes sprawled on his bedroom floor, divided in two different piles two pieces of paper laying atop of both, labeling the first, larger, pile with a ‘please burn them’ and the second one with a ‘decent ones’.

As the weeks went by, and he watched and analyzed every single event in his life, Yuuri realized that what he was experiencing weren’t simple dreams.

Perhaps he had always known it, in the back of his mind. Ever since he had found that messy ‘who are you’ scribbled on a yellow post-it note.

And as the weeks went by, he grew more accustomed to what he started to refer to as ‘switchings’. He didn’t know much about them, didn’t understand the logistics around them. He only knew that, almost twice a week, he would randomly switch bodies with a man on the other side of the world.

A Russian man named Victor (he had once woken up with the man’s name written on his wrist in red marker), who loved to snoop around his life and seemed to be a pro at embarrassing Yuuri.

Of course, the first time Yuuri had found out the man’s name, his heart had fluttered in his chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, it could be Victor Nik-

He had immediately halted his thoughts, he needed to stop with the useless daydreaming that would bring him nothing other than utter disappointment.

 

~~~~~~

 

When his eyes fluttered open, he was instantly met with the now all too familiar scent, an involuntary, lazy, smile curling his lips upwards.

Waking up in Victor’s body was always pleasant, the comfort of his bed and clothes, the calming fragrance enveloping his body, the weight of Makkachin lying next to him. But this time, excitement bubbled in his stomach as he quickly rose to his feet.

He had been waiting _this_ for an entire week.

Last time he had switched, Yuuri had left an important question in the notebook on Victor’s desk (that was now filling with Yuuri’s favorite books because, well, Victor _needed_ to read them). He had demanded they set some ground rules, some guidelines that they could follow to better their switching and not raise suspicion in the people around them.

Yuuri had worked hard with his rules. Had thought about them long and hard, and in the end, he had written them on color-coded post-its. Pink for ‘to avoid at all costs’, Yellow for ‘only if necessary’ and Green for ‘don’t even _think_ about it’.

Enthusiastically, he grabbed the notebook from his desk and flipped it open to find the desired page.

Underneath his question was only a single answer:

_No paprika chips, I don’t like the aftertaste._

Puzzled, Yuuri browsed every single page in search of the remaining rules.

Silver eyebrows drawing together as he realized that the rest of the notebook was untouched and pristine.

He fought the urge to facepalm.

 

~~~~~~

 

On the other side of the world, Yuuri’s body stood in front of a mirror covered entirely with colorful post-its, mouth agape as he took everything in.

He reached for a pink post-it and examined it.

He still felt extremely weirded out by the fact that he could actually understand Japanese writing, but was intrigued at the same time.

_Do not attempt another Quadruple Salchows._

Victor flinched, still feeling guilty. He ignored the yellow post it that ordered him to ‘close his eyes when undressing’ and slightly lifted the blue shirt he was wearing to reveal the, now almost faded, yellow bruise.

That, was a rule he was certain to follow.

 

~~~~~~

 

Training turned out to be harder than he thought it would.

Celestino, his coach, had no idea of the situation, so he would treat him equally every single day, even when the one in Yuuri’s body wasn’t Yuuri himself.

And so, his body would train, but all the advices and corrections would be lost in between the switching. Wasted words.

Victor tried to write them down, on pieces of papers or, sometimes, even on his own skin, but it wasn’t the same.

Not to mention the time wasted when it came to learn and then practice both his short and free program.

And, as Yuuri sat on a plane headed to Skate America, determined to win a medal and secure his place to his first Grand Prix Final, he wished and begged for the switching not to occur for a couple of days.

_Just enough for me to work this out._

 

~~~~~~

 

Turning around in his uncomfortable hotel bed in Kent, he groaned, his muscles still sore from the-

He shot up abruptly, his body protesting with a jolt of pain.

_The competition._

He scrambled out of the bed, the cheap covers scratching his skin lightly as he threw them across his body. He was ready to leap towards his phone, when a fleck of gold caught his attention.

Right on his nightstand lay a gold medal. His fingertips carefully grazing its surface incredulity bubbling in his stomach.

His gold ring banged slightly against the metal of the prize, the sound snapping him out of a trance he had unconsciously slipped into.

He took a few steps backwards from the medal, right hand playing anxiously with his gold ring, his good luck charm, something that he did unconsciously every time he felt stressed.

He wanted to be happy, he truly did. But he couldn’t bring himself to be, the victory tasting awfully bitter. Because, although his body had been the one to compete, he hadn’t been the real winner. Russian-Victor had competed in his place, Russian-Victor had been the winner.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he shut them tight, not allowing his mind to feel guilty or sad.

Instead, he sighed a shaky breath as he realized that he had qualified for the Grand Prix final. Determination filled his body, he was ready to prove himself.

 

~~~~~~

 

Victor panted as the music came to a halt, Celestino clapped proudly and Phichit cheered him on from the other side of the rink.

He smiled, skating towards Yuuri’s coach, and letting the man pat him on his back.

“I’ll pick you up at around five pm,” informed him Celestino, Victor nodded, running a hand through ‘his’ black hair “don’t be late.”

Yuuri would never, he thought. In the months he had switched with him, the Russian had learned an astounding amount of things regarding the younger man, although he. technically, had never met him, he felt like he knew him better than anyone else.

He knew how organized and meticulous the boy was. He knew how much he loved dogs. He knew of his anxiety, off his little quirks and habits. He knew his laugh and the way his voice cracked in the morning. He knew how adamant he was when he came to his privacy.

Victor understood Yuuri and he was sure Yuuri understood him all the same, if not better.

Victor also knew how hard the Japanese boy had worked to reach the Grand Prix Final’s finish line, something he had always given for granted. He knew it from his hundreds of ice skating magazines stacked under his desk, he knew it from the simple conversations he had had with his friends and family, from the subtle ways they cheered for him and from the not so subtle ones (like the giant banner Yuuko and Mari had proudly shown him earlier that day).

“How long will it take us to reach Barcelona?” he curiously inquired as he sat on one of Ice Castle’s bench, Celestino frowned.

“Barcelona? Yuuri, we’re going to Sochi.” this time it was Victor’s time to frown. Sochi? No, Celestino must be mistaken Sochi Grand Prix Final’s had been–

“Yuuri let’s go,” whined Mari, poking her head inside the rink “It’s so damn cold in here.”

Still stunned, Victor made his way towards Yuuri’s petulant but loving sister, skates in one hand and the gym bag in the other, the strap weighting down on his fingers, pushing Yuuri’s gold ring into his skin.

For the first time, he seemed to realize the astounding similarity with a ring that he had back home in Russia.

“Hurry!” whined Mari, hands tugging him, prompting him to move quickly “I’m hungry.”

Victor chuckled, muttering a ‘alright’.

 

~~~~~~

Two days later, while Victor was preparing for his Short Program, his cheeks started lining with moisture out of the blue. It was unexpected, the tears welling in his eyes and falling from them quickly. They also were unstoppable and never ending.

His mind started racing as a feeling of loss and helplessness filled his entire body, sobs escaping his mouth as he quietly tried to hide from everyone.

His heart ached and he instantly thought of Yuuri, he didn’t know much of him, the memories fading instantly once he woke up, but he felt attached to him nonetheless and as tears spilled from his eyes, he wondered if the man was alright.

 

That night, when he lay in his hotel bed, he worried about Yuuri, he hoped that he was okay and, not being able to contact him to make sure, he simply waited for the switch to take place so that he could _make sure_ everything was alright.

Except, as the weeks passed the worry grew each day, filling every aspect of his life. He wasn’t able to put the notion away, he wasn’t able to think of something else.

And as every day he woke up in his own bed, a feeling of dread surrounding him and threatening to engulf him, he sobbed uncontrollably, Yuuri’s name on the tip of his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I used poor Javier Fernandez’s fall at the european championship to describe Yuuri’s own fall, it looked painful as hell and it stuck with me for so long that I knew I had to use it someday.)  
> hope you liked this.  
> If you want to follow me on tumblr, [this is my yoi sideblog](https://pettyuri.tumblr.com/)
> 
> and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9603146) you can check out my very angsty one shot or my [other multi-chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9543902/chapters/21580601)
> 
> thank you so much for reading, let me know if I need to continue or if this sucks lol


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